“Grandma, is this as fast as your car goes?”
I’m in a near panic in the backseat of my grandma’s car. We’re heading back downtown. I just hope we make it before the holiday season gets here.
“Are you in some kind of energy-saving gear?”
Luckily, my grandma refuses to drive in Bessie, the car heard round the world, which my grandpa is still trying to bring back to life in front of Lance’s house. Grandma insists on driving her own car. I can’t say I blame her; my ears are still ringing.
Hailey is sitting next to me, plowing through a book about meat-eating plants—she must have finished the book about shipwrecks when I wasn’t looking.
Jessie is sitting silently up front with our grandma. I’d probably be able to see steam coming out of her ears, but she has a towel draped over her head. She doesn’t want to be seen in her current state of zittiness.
“So what’s with this artist Arthur McGuffin?” I ask the towel. “How come there are only forty-three of his paintings in existence?”
“AAAAGH!” the towel snarfs. “He burned most of his paintings in a fit of rage one night. I know how he felt. So is that it? Can I have those cards back now, you little thief?”
“Not so fast,” I say. Boy, she sounds touchy. “Do you think this McGuffin guy could have stolen his painting to burn it?”
“He’s been dead for over twenty years, so I think you can rule him out as a suspect.”
“You’re probably right,” I say quietly.
I watch out the window as a kid on a skateboard blows past us like we’re standing still. “Grandma, I think I can do a crab walk faster than this.”
“Don’t rush me, honey,” she says, coasting to a very gradual stop at the corner of Baker Street and Conan Avenue.
Like most old people I’ve encountered, my grandma hates to be rushed. Apparently, once you’re old enough to grow hair out of your ears, the concept of rushing around to accomplish things suddenly seems pointless and ridiculous.
“Have you ever heard of the painting in this photo?” I ask the towel. “It’s called Man with a Cat.”
Jessie growls from under the towel. “I didn’t know the name of it, no. Nobody does. It was always just a rumor.”
“And this artist is all famous and stuff?”
“I can’t believe this!” she snips. “Yeah, he’s ‘all famous and stuff.’ He’s only the most famous and influential artist from this region ever, so there’d be lots of interest if a new painting of his turned up.”
“So it’s worth a lot of money?” I ask.
“More money than you’ll make in a lifetime,” she snarks. She holds out her hand and snaps her fingers.
“I’m still thinking of questions,” I inform her.
Officer Lestrade told Hailey he’d meet us at the mayor’s mansion. He’ll be on his coffee break, since his chief ordered him not to log in any more time on the theft of a painting that might not be worth a darn.
The chief might change his mind if he saw Mrs. Bagby’s photo.
Clem, the maintenance guy at the museum, told Hailey that the museum was closed yesterday but the entire city council toured it late in the afternoon. And although he couldn’t be sure, Clem thought Mayor Fliggle was the last one to come down the stairs. He remembered because the mayor was wearing cowboy boots, and they made a colossal racket coming down the stairs.
And no, Clem didn’t remember hearing any breaking glass.
Hailey had called City Hall, but the mayor and his boots had already skipped out for the day. She was somehow able to talk us into an emergency meeting at the mayor’s mansion, which is right next to City Hall. I don’t ask how she was able to accomplish this—I don’t think I want to know.
I’m just hoping the mayor noticed something yesterday. Or saw somebody fishy hanging around. Or even remembers if the painting was still hanging on the wall!
I realize he is my best shot, because tracking down and interviewing the entire city council could take days.
So many leads, so little time.
I watch all the other traffic on the road whiz past us. “Would it help if I got out and pushed, Grandma?”
Not surprisingly, Lance isn’t helping much. He had called when we were rolling away from the house. He and Jimmy Chee burned a batch of cookies, the smoke alarm went off, and he got sidetracked opening all the windows in his house. I’m secretly pleased the sleepover isn’t going so splendidly, but I need Lance to get to work.
As we finally exceed tricycle speed on the Baskerville Expressway, the cell phone rings. Hailey drops her book about flesh-eating flowers, and answers. She listens quietly and says, “Okay, thanks, Clem.”
She snaps the phone shut, looks at me, and goes back to her book.
“Well?” I say in exasperation.
“That was Clem,” she says without looking up. “He said the auction has started. The first two paintings have already sold and the crowd is bidding on number three.”
I look up hopefully as the car comes to a sudden stop, which isn’t easy to detect when your average speed doesn’t exceed slow and slower.
But we’re not in front of the mayor’s mansion!
We’re stopped on the off-ramp to downtown. It looks like a parking lot! With panic rising in my throat like a plate of bad clams, I figure we’re still five city blocks from where I should have been two hours ago.
I can either cry or do something dramatic.
Or cry dramatically, of course.
Instead, I open my door and jump out.
“What about my cards!” Jessie shrieks from under the towel.
“I’ll meet you at City Hall!” I shout, slam the door before they can tell me that I’ve gone crazy, and rocket off between the honking cars.
Before I know it, the wind is in my face, downtown Baskerville is spread out before me, and I’m running so fast I can’t figure out why I don’t wear a cape.